


My name is Derek Hale

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst and Feels, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Memory Loss, Sad llamas, Stiles Stilinski Has Dementia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: Stiles is diagnosed with early on-set dementia at the age of 32, the rarest 1% of the population. Doctors regard him as a medical marvel, Derek just wants his husband back.





	1. Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> This makes me sad, and im the one who wrote it lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading anyways~

Derek’s been through a lot, like a lot _a lot. _

Over the years, he had accumulated enough emotional baggage to be denied at every lost-and-found office within a ten yard radius. Let’s see, there’s Kate Argent killing his whole family, torture, chimeras, the alpha pack, torture again, Jennifer-justkidding-Darach, hunters and yep more torture. Fun for the whole fucking family.

After the shitty maelstrom that is his life he’d thought, somewhat naively, that the gods would’ve let him off the hook by now, and really, Derek should’ve known better. When was his life ever that easy?

It hasn't been all bad, Derek can give them that at least. Fate had almost been kind, in a way. The things he thought he’d lost came the long way round to find him again - a new pack, a new alpha and a new family, Stiles was just the giant sarcastic cherry on top. Ain’t it crazy how life works out that way? 

When they started dating, he’d thought _finally, fucking finally. _His days are looking up, his pack is thriving, the sun is shining, his skin is clear, his stubble is shaven and he’s gonna bury the old hatchet fifty feet below the ground and never lay eyes on it again. He was going to be normal, oh so blissfully boringly _normal_. Just thinking about it gave him a semi hard-on. He’s driving a Toyota for god’s sake, that's basically a certifiable mom car. At least that's what Stiles says and don't tell anyone this or Derek will never live it down, but the man is always right. Well most of the time anyway. Kinda like the weather, seventy percent right with a chance of sarcastic comment.

They bought a house, like an actual honest-to-god house. With a roof and everything. No more slummin it in abandoned train carriages or abandoned office units or abandoned half-burnt childhood homes for Derek, no siree. He’s paying a mortgage and everything. Endless days of gardening, doing the dishes, arguing with Stiles (_Just because you’re a damn werewolf with damn werewolf metabolism doesn't mean you can't die from scurvy, now eat your damn vegetables!_), doing the laundry, half-hearted attempts at cooking before giving up and ordering takeout, arguing with Stiles again, buying groceries, going to the diner (_Jesus Stiles so she got your order wrong, french fries not curly. Its not the end of the world!_) blahblahblah. It was going to be beautiful. Basically, domesticity is going to be Derek’s metaphorical drug and he’s prepared to be high for the rest of his life. 

Then Stiles had proposed, dropping to one knee in the middle of their backyard.

Derek had stood there in his overalls, clutching a pair of shears like a serial killer and replied ‘_Yesyesyes.’ _Stiles had laughed as he was picked up and swung around in Derek’s arms but Derek didn't care. He could finally_, fucking finally _walk down the aisle and know that it won’t end in flames. In actual, literal flames. The man he loved would be standing at the other end, waiting for him and everything would be alright because goddamit they deserved this.

He would read his vows and Stiles would read his, except he hadn’t written any, obviously. Since this was Stiles and Stiles had written a haiku instead. Obviously. Everyone laughed, the Sheriff, Scott, Lydia even Chris. Derek did too, more out of nerves than actual humor. Then Stiles had winked at him, mischievous and oh-so-eager and all the tension leaves his body at once, he sighs in exasperated fondness, nodding ‘_I do, I do, I do’ _despite it all. And he means it.

They kiss and hightail outta there. Emotionally stable Derek is still Derek (technically Derek S. Hale now) and though he loves his pack, this wedding isn't for them. He grabs Stiles by the hand and nearly wolfs out in the middle of church in his hurry to leave. Stiles anchors him though, laughter ringing in his ears as they whizz by the rows of surprised faces. Surprised, not shocked, which was a good sign.

Then came the honeymoon night.

Derek had panicked again. The first time he had sex with someone he actually liked, his whole family died. Yes, of all the times he chooses to remember that tidbit of information, he chooses now. Somewhere, there’s gotta be a self-destructive anonymous support group named after him. Stiles panics too, because Derek is panicking and he thinks it’s because Stiles is an anal virgin.

And then they’re both panicking. 

Stiles tell him so, blurts out his entire sexual history too, though it was an admittedly short list. Derek huffs out a laugh in surprise. He can't help it. The things they’re worried about are so stupidly unrelated. How could he not see that in the grand scheme of things, it didn't even matter? That they are who they are and they can only be who they are and there’s really no point in comparing themselves to other people. It always takes a little Stiles to put things in perspective.   
Of course, Stiles misunderstands his laughter and thinks Derek is actually jeering him and now Stiles is panicking for real. Until Derek admits he’s an anal virgin too and they could do this together and everything would be alright and by jove, when did they become such a sickeningly sweet couple?

Then they have sex.

Its slow, glacial even, talking and petting like they usually do for hours. Well Stiles did most of the talking, Derek just listens and hums at appropriate junctures. Cold fingers touch him, exploring and experimental, they ghost on the waistband of his boxers and Derek sucks in a deep breath.   
Stiles sits up suddenly, face grave and dangerously close to his crotch, _‘So do werewolves have knots or what? Lay it on me big guy.’ _The fucker grins up at him, far too pleased at the double entendre. Derek can’t remember what he says in response, probably something cheesy like ‘I’m a grower not a shower.’ Stiles was rubbing off on him. Innuendo not intended.

Just like that, the tension eases and the small spark between them ignites into uncontrollable passion. Like waking up from a coma, everything is too sensitive and overwhelming all at once. Their bodies twist and turn to claim any patch of unmarked skin, soaring and diving into one other, desperate to find a better angle, to feel higher and to sink deeper, to please and to seek pleasure in turn.   
All the while Stiles whispers filthy perverted things into his ear, things he wants to do to Derek and things he wants Derek to do to him so Derek puts his werewolf strength to good use in accomplishing every single one of them.

They stay in the hotel room for three days.

There’s a noise complaint on the first, slipped discreetly under the door in the form of a strongly worded letter. On the second day they manage to knock off all the paintings on the wall, Derek thinks they did them a favour anyway, those portraits were far too ugly to look at. And finally on the third, they were politely asked to leave the establishment by a disgruntled and slightly traumatised manager. When housekeeping finally arrives, the place is thrashed. Pillows clawed into ribbons, feathers piled high on the floor, one leg of the bed is broken and there are mysterious stains running from the carpet to the bathroom floor. If anyone shone a black light around, they would be in for a rude awakening.

They get a hefty fine for destruction of public property as well as threats to file a lawsuit from the room one over. Too bad they were already on the highway by then, speeding away in the Camaro. As quick getaways go, this one hadn’t been that bad, you know, running from flesh-eating creatures of the underworld none withstanding.

Besides, they’ve fought through hell and back and honestly just didn't give a damn.

(Until the Sheriff calls Stiles on his phone and they apologise and beg on their knees for forgiveness.)  
  


-

  
It starts on the morning of Stiles’ 32ndbirthday.

Five years. Five of the most precious years that Derek will hold close to his heart and blame himself for not treasuring it more. For five years they lived, they cried, they laughed, they fought and then they laughed some more.

_'_You never know what you’ve got till it’s gone' and Derek thought he understood this when he was fifteen, couldn’t believe he has to live through it _again _at the age of thirty-eight. He should’ve seen the signs, he really _should’ve_, but the mind has a convenient way of blocking things out when it wants to. Stiles was snappier these days, tongue dipping in insults more than jokes like it usually does. Otherwise though, he hadn’t admitted to having any difficulties and Derek wanted to respect that.

What a fool he was.

That morning Derek had been in their room, making the bed like he always does. Stiles walks in with a smile on his face, crumpled pyjamas stained with streaks of black. He hands over a ‘My Husband is Batman’ mug filled with the bitter aroma of coffee and Derek takes a slow sip. Black no sugar, he's never once drank it straight.

‘Dude,' Stiles sets down his own cup on the night stand, lends a hand tucking the duvet and fluffs the pillows. 'You’re so _nice_.’ He straightens up to look at Derek dead in the eye, his smile still firmly in place. ‘By the way...'

_'Who are you again?’_


	2. To Remember Me

  
Stiles had been obsessed with time travel as a kid.

They didn't have the sci-fi channel back then, but he and Dad used to watch back-to-back episodes of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ together and he’s been hooked ever since. He collected posters, figurines, any scrap of memorabilia he could get his grabby little hands on. He even had an imaginary alien friend from the planet Omar and made his own time machine using spare car parts and an old radio that he’d taken apart and put back together again. Too bad it never did anything except blow bubbles though. He’d named it Hwethen and it still lives somewhere in their garage to this day.

At school, he'd written 'Time-Voyager' when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up and to encourage a passion in the sciences, his middle school teacher Mrs Norris, had recommended the annual school science competition where he would eventually meet and fall in love with Lydia Martin.

Lydia_ freaking_ Martin. Where even to begin? Queen of the Science Fair, youngest member of the Gifted Program, Scrabble Champion in the junior division for three consecutive years and most importantly, the future Mrs Stilinski.

Ahhh yes, his first boyhood crush. The other kids called him Stalker Stiles but he didn't care, he wore that name like a badge of honour. Lydia Martin was the single most interesting human being in the whole of Beacon County, with her wild ginger hair and ability to recite the periodic table backwards, it's a wonder not more people were in love with her.

Boy was he a cringey twelve year old. 

From following her around so often, he soon discovered that Lydia Martin was always alone, even when she went to the bathroom. They were both outcasts but at least he had Scott, Lydia had no one. Though it seemed at the time, that she preferred it that way. Then they entered high school and wow, no one could have predicted this turn of events, certainly not Stiles.

And he gets it okay? People change, they grow up and they move on. It's a fact of life, no if ands or buts. That's fine, that's normal. Stiles doesn't blame Scott for changing without him, for becoming an alpha and starting his own pack, just like he doesn't blame Mom for dying and he definitely doesn't blame Dad for wallowing in grief and a sea of whiskey.

He really doesn't. Because he knows deep down like real deep _deep _down that growing up is also growing used to being alone. To change is to leave behind, and isolation is the ultimate flip side of independence. Lydia Martin had known that too, she’s smart like that, he’d just wish she’d told him sooner.

So he changes. Ditches the posters, listens to the music the cool kids listen to and joins lacrosse though he hates the game and hates Finstock even more. He’s not popular by any means but he’s well-known enough to ask for favours when he needs them, how else was he gonna get keys to every locked room in town?   
He doesn't dream of badass-alien-fighting or intergalactic-time-leaping or parallel universe explorations anymore. In fact, these days he hardly dreams at all.

Then Scott got bit.

Soon, his dreamless dreams turn into nightmares with alarmingly high frequency. He finds his time and varying body parts regularly eaten up by supernatural creatures, along with any semblance of normalcy he once had. He learns about werewolves, about alphas, about hunters, about monster turf wars that would put Aliens vs Predators to shame. Not to mention, all of them, and he means _all _of them, want to tear his sweet little hiney in two. And not in a good way, more of a... flambé into juicy kebabs type of way.

Suddenly, time travel seemed like a cakewalk.

-

Fast forward another sixteen years and Stiles finds himself sitting in the middle of the hospital, hands tucked to his side, feet tapping uncontrollably on the tiled floor.

He wonders which is worse, getting his diagnosis or finding out they didn't sell Reese peanut buttercups in the vending machines anymore. What kind of vile, evil creature would do such a thing? Yeaaa, the Reese thing is definitely the greater sin. What kind of hospital has a MacDonalds on the ground floor but doesn't sell Reeses in their vending machine? It’s not like the dentist works here. Then it'll be ironic.

...Do they sell Reeses at the dentist? They really should. A doctor he doesn't recognize emerges from the room and hands him a pale green folder. Beside him, Derek tenses. Stiles doesn't blame the guy, it was the result of his first cognitive assessment.

He'd been pleasantly surprised then, he’s never gotten a zero on a test before. Well… there was that one time but that had been on purpose, this one surely wasn't. He did the MRI right after, and that pretty much confirmed what they already knew. Derek had cried that day, leaning over him on those ugly yellow plastic seats. 

He's known the man for seventeen years now, been married for five of those years and not once had he seen Derek cry. _Not once_. Not even when tortured to the point of near-death by Kate Argent, not even when Laura had been murdered, not even when he’d nearly lost Stiles to a hit-and-run, nope, not even then. Nada, zilch nothing.

God only knows Derek has issues, so many _freaking _issues he could beat Time magazine if wanted to. If Stiles were in his shoes, he would be crying all the time and he’ll never be able to stop. He doesn't know what to do.

Usually when things go wrong, they bumble their way to save the day and always manage to pull through the skin of their teeth. When someone dies, there’s simply no time to mourn and when there is? Stiles finds himself to be the first to ugly-cry on the floor, right behind Scott. They weep into each others arms like manly babies, in stolen moments when they think no one can see.   
Derek doesn't seem the type to do that though. 

Stiles doesn't know what to do.

So he pats Derek’s shoulder awkwardly, tracing the triskele on his back that he knows is there, whispers soft nonsense into his ear _(It’s okay Der, everything will be fine, its okay, we’ve been through a lot worse you know, remember that wendigo? The one that that went ‘Grr Grr’? Like, who even says that?—)_

-

Derek doesn't say anything the whole drive home, which is standard Derek behaviour. Stiles has plenty to say, he always does, but he’s having a hard time stringing the words together and the effort gives him a headache. A pervading sense of doom and gloom settles in the car and Stiles wants to stab himself in the toe.

He flips through the radio instead. The songs sound familiar yet he can’t quite place the words, can’t sing along like he usually does. The space in the car gets smaller and smaller until Stiles feels like a battery hen cooped up in a metal cage, shuffling down the assembly line. He just needs a minute for everything to stop. Just, STOP!

The car breaks on the side of the dirt road. 

Stiles tumbles out on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. When he gets a panic attack, there’s usually a trigger. Like getting chased by a deranged alpha werewolf for example, or getting beaten up by a crazy old fart or watching his mom die by inches or— There’s a long list. But this time, this time there hadn’t been a trigger… which makes him slightly confused, if he’s very honest.

He’s known for a long time now, the news should be no real surprise to him. The nature of dementia meant that patients wouldn't know what was happening until it was too late. Most of the time it's a close family member that recognises the symptoms first and even after a clinical diagnosis, many remain deep in denial. But most patients haven’t been accepted into the Bureau either, Stiles can put two and two together. And by two and two he means the journal he keeps and Dad’s records of Mom’s medical history, it really shouldn't take a genius to figure this shit out. Only… 

The shock on Derek’s face, the swift resignation in his eyes. Those beautiful deep eyes… looking back at Stiles through a sheen of tears. 

_'You’re doing this to him'_, a little voice says accusingly, '_Kate did it to him and now you’re doing it too. This is going to kill him and it's all your fault.'_

And that's… that's something to think about, he’s gotta admit. Though he never wants to hear his name and Kate’s name spoken in a single sentence, like _ever_. Still, he’s under no illusion that Derek has recovered from his past. Stiles certainly hasn't, neither has Scott nor Lydia for that matter. And that’s the irony of it all, isnt it? 

It would be easier to forget, preferential even, to rid the nightmares of their youth. To pretend they were happy, fully functioning adults that work a nine to five and pay their taxes, to pretend they didn't know the taste of blood on their tongue, the smell of burning flesh and hair in their nose, the sounds of screams in mid-torture echoing in their ears. To pretend like they didn't know the fear of losing your life, or the guilt of taking the life of another. Stiles has been on both ends of the spectrum and still can’t decide which is worse. Looks like the jury’s still out on that one. 

So yes, he thinks, it would be easier to block out that entire chunk of back-to-back near-death experiences. That's what any normal person would want. And yet… it isn't? He’s… happy? Okay, maybe not happy,_ exactly_. But… content? In a way? It sounds weird but he’s kind of… grateful? 

He figures that to know peace is to know chaos and therefore the opposite of that, must also be true. 

By the time most people hit his age, they’ve already had a quarter life crisis somewhere along the way. Travelling the world, doing yoga, getting a tattoo, losing twenty pounds or spending five hundred bucks on a new hairstyle, all these and more are just crazy stuff people do to curb the fear of death looming in the great beyond. _Boooo, scareeee.   
_Even Danny had left for Europe on his thirtieth birthday, off to join the Red Bull 'Can-you-make-it' Challenge in order to, and he quotes, '_Rediscover my true self, man_'. He returns to Beacon Hills a week later, only to find that he was still the same person and nothing had changed at all.

Stiles finds the whole thing hilarious. He doesn't need an existential crisis, his whole life has been one giant crisis, he has the scars and the night terrors to prove it. It’s better than living life never having experienced anything, he thinks, cycling through dull senseless days of watching and waiting for a moment that never comes.

That would have driven Stiles up the wall, preferably a padded one and in a room with a secret one-way window. Not that he actually likes the pain and fear, S&M isn’t really his kink. Not that he’s judging either because hello, werewolf sex? Technically does that make him a furry? It does, doesn't it? He’s human though and Derek isn’t anthropomorphic. Does that still count?

These thoughts race through his mind in rapid-fire succession as he backs up against the Toyota and squeezes himself into a ball. Derek climbs out from the driver’s seat a second later, kneeling down beside him. He hauls his whole body over Stiles like a big blanket, stitching their fingers together while his other hand runs up and down Stiles’ shoulder.

It's amazing how Derek knows what he needs without saying anything.

They lay there for so long that Stiles prays they don't get pulled in for traffic violations. The Sheriff had barely got over the whole wedding debaucle and Stiles would like to stave off a little longer before he gave his old man a heart attack. 

He worries about Dad.

He worries how badly this is gonna hurt his father, he worries about being a bad son to the man who’s single-handedly raised him into adulthood. He worries about dying like Mom and forcing his Dad to watch for the second time in his life as his last remaining family dies in his arms.   
He worries about Scott. Because let’s face it, the dude might be an alpha with the biggest pack in California but he’s not always working with a full deck of cards. Thank god for Malia, the only one willing enough to bite the bullet and marry the dope. He worries about his goddaughter, baby Aurora, who’s going to lose her Uncle Stiles before she even knows his name.

He worries about Derek.

Derek, who looks at Stiles like he hung the moon and stars. Derek, who won’t leave even if Stiles sets him free. Derek, who’s loyal and brave and who’s very presence sets his heart at ease. Derek, who’s going to live the rest of his life burdened by the scars of his past and the future of a husband who won’t even remember him.

_Derek. Oh, Derek_. He worries if this is the last straw, if the werewolf will lose himself like Peter had. He worries that Derek won’t let go when the time comes.

Stiles is a natural born worrier but he’s also a planner, so he plots and he schemes. There’s no way out this time not for him, his spark has finally run out, but he’ll leave Derek with something to hold onto, even if only for a little while.

‘Derek listen to me’ He grabs both sides of the stubbly face, ‘When I forget you—No, listen’ He boops Derek on the nose when the werewolf opens his mouth to argue. ‘When I forget you, and I will’ he gives Derek a pointed look. 

‘You need to remind me who I am’ he points to himself. ‘Who you are’, he points at Derek’s chest. ‘And what we mean to each other’ he bumps their foreheads harshly. ‘Say it every single day, record it down if you have to, and set it on loop in the background. Repetition is key here.’ Stiles continues, clearing this throat, ‘That's what the doctor ordered.’

‘You got all that?’ He smiles, boops Derek on the nose again and sniggers loudly when the man goes cross-eyed ‘Direct orders from the captain himself, everyone in favour say Aye!’

Derek looks away from him and for a second and Stiles feels his ribcage seizing, knows Derek can smell the fear, can hear the lie. But his husband just lets out an exasperated sigh and mumbles an affirmative ‘aye’ in response.

‘Can’t hear you buddy,' He cupped his ear and leaned in 'Not all of us have enhanced hearing you know?’

Derek rolls his eyes dramatically, ‘_Aye_.’

‘Good.’ He pats Derek on the chest, right below the left clavicle where his heart is beating, strong and sturdy. ‘And--’ Stiles hesitates, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. ‘No matter how bad it gets, do you promise you won't forget me?’

‘Do you?’

_I do, I do, I do.  
  
_

* * *

  
Living with dementia is a little like time travel.

Not so much jumping through one portal to another, as Hollywood would have you believe, but more like blowing a soapy bubble and watching it float up in slow motion. Sometimes he drifts up evenly, skipping through large chunks of the present and crash-landing into the future. More often than not however, the bubble bounces sidewards, away from his grasp before quickly spinning out of control and it takes all of his willpower not to let it pop in mid-air. 

It’s how he ends up two hours early at Scott and Malia’s baby shower.

He still remembers the way they had looked at him, like he wasn't a person anymore. The same way they had looked at him after… He shrugs the distant memories off with a laugh, picks up some nearby decorations while cracking a crude joke and busies himself with helping out.

He ends up making more of a mess. 

Scott pries the party streamers from his hands and bumps his shoulder lightly but doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

He leads Stiles into the baby room where Malia is slowly rocking the bassinet, humming a loving lullaby that sounded a cross between surreptitious growling and 'itsy-bitsy spider'. He peeks in to see little Aurora sleeping soundly, wearing a paw-printed onesie and a chain of crescent moons and stars dangling around her tiny ankle, a tinkling reminder with every movement.

He sinks into the rocking chair beside her, keeping vigil as a soldier on active duty as Scott and Malia head back downstairs to get ready for the party.  
  


Some time later, guests begin to trickle in and Stiles lets himself get lost in the crowd.  
  



	3. And The Love

Super strength, accelerated healing, enhanced senses, an army of betas, a true alpha.

Even with all his powers Scott wonders how, after all this time, he can still feel so mind-numbingly _human_. Degraded to a mere puppy when matched against 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.

They were at the hospital, topping up the long list of medication for Stiles’ prescription. Scott was busy at the counter, checking and re-checking the different bottles and labels, distracted for all of two minutes. _Two minutes. _When he turned around, Stiles was gone. Nothing left but a jacket to mask his scent, that smartass.

He drops everything and whisks down the hallway, careful not to knock into anyone, keeping his expression schooled. Nostrils flaring, he concentrates but the smell of antiseptic messes with his senses, laughs at his carelessness. His mom pops into view as he turns the corner and they stare at each other for a brief moment. He wonders what Melissa sees in his eyes because she nods once and heads off.

A moment later the PA system blares loudly, ‘_Security 10:4, Code Yellow, patient Stilinski please report to the nearest staff member. I repeat, Code Yellow, patient Stilinski please—‘ _Scott catches his breath but doesn't slow. If there was one thing he knew about Stiles is that the man knows how to make a quick getaway like no other. He’d been accepted into the FBI after all, leaving the hospital undetected would be a cinch in comparison. He just hopes the Sheriff never gets wind of this little accident, just because he can survive a gunshot wound doesn't meant he likes being used for target practice. 

He reaches the entrance. ‘Did you see him?’ The receptionist at the front desk shakes her head sadly. ‘Thanks!’ He hollers back, already sprinting out the double doors. He races through the parking lot, digging his pocket for the key but stops short.

His bike is gone.

He checks both the front and back pockets of his jeans, yeepp his key is definitely gone. And not just one key, _all _of his keys have been snagged, alongside his phone. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

‘_That son of a_—‘ He doesn't have time for this.

Running to the back of the building, he sheds the hoodie and shirt quickly, dropping on all fours before racing through the preserve. He howls and after a beat, several howls echo in the distance. He skids to a stop, straining his ears to listen. Malia, Theo, Liam, Mason Peter and Jackson answer him. No one has seen Stiles. He growls, pawing at the dirt. 

Then a deep howl in the distance catches his attention, so faint he can barely pick it up. He perks, body cocked like a gun. The howl echoes again, louder this time. It’s coming from the direction of the Sheriff’s house, Scott sags in relief and picks up the pace. Thank _God_ Stiles hadn’t run out of town this time. If he did, there would be no way to track him.

He takes a shortcut through the clearing and doesn't stop until he reaches the house. He shifts back in one fluid motion, emerging half-naked into the familiar backyard. From the corner of his eye, he spots Derek crouched over Stiles in the garage, they’re backed up against the Jeep and Scott leaves them to it.

The pair barely notice as he approaches, he thinks about staying but remembers the bag of medicine left on the counter of the clinic and groans at his own stupidity.

Hopefully no one had snatched it, the pills inside were worth at least three hundred bucks. He rounds the house till he reaches the front porch and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The motorbike is parked neatly on the curb, key still in the ignition. On top of the seat, he finds his phone, his helmet, a ring of keys, a stack of chewing gum, some recipts, two condoms, a paperclip and a bright yellow post-it note that read:

> _Sorry for <strike>stealin</strike>g borrowing your stuff!_
> 
> _P.S. you have a cute kid :)_

He scrunches up the note and lets out a deep sigh but grins despite himself. Some things just never change.

He grabs a spare shirt and unlocks his phone. He’s got eight missed calls and a text from Peter who’s on duty to patrol the parameters. He fires a text to Deaton, informing that he’ll be late getting back to work then calls Malia to say that he’s sorry he won’t be able to pick up Aurora from the daycare today but he’ll do it tomorrow he promises.

He revs his bike and takes off. He’ll be back in an hour tops, just enough time to grab the medicine, check on Stiles, then rush off back to work. He knows Derek will manage in the meantime. As he drives away, he could hear their synchronized heartbeats fading off in the distance, Derek’s voice soft as he repeats the familiar mantra.   
  


_‘My name is Derek Hale and yours is Stiles Micyslaw Stilinski...’_

* * *

  
One morning, like every other morning, Stiles wakes up, brushes his teeth, gets dressed and heads down for breakfast. 

He’d taken a step down the stairs when all of a sudden, time seems to stop. It’s like someone had pulled out the plugs in his brain and his mind goes blank. He doesn't know how long it lasts but by the time he can breathe again, the bubble had popped.

He circles around the kitchen floor, hunting for a teaspoon. He sweeps through every inch of the room and gets increasingly frustrated when he can't find anything he needs. _Where the hell did they keep the fucking teaspoons? Had Derek moved it just to annoy him? He must have, that asshole.  
_

By the time he found them, first drawer to the left like it always is, _You’re such a moron Stiles, _he was panting and drenched in sweat. Someone calls his name.

He turns to find Derek staring at him from the doorway, the same look on his face that he had seen on Scott and Malia at the shower. He swallows and smiles, ‘Morning sunshine! Didn't hear you get in, I was just making some coffee, care for a cuppa?’

‘Stiles…’ Derek says in an exceedingly gentle tone ‘It's 9pm.’

‘Wha- No, it's-' He chances a look outside the curtained windows, the inky darkness glaring back at him ‘I could've sworn—‘ He looks away. There’s a carton of spilt milk on the counter that's probably sour by now.

‘So what?' He shoots back. 'I’m an adult, I can have coffee whenever the hell I want!’

Derek stares at him. Is Stiles going crazy or did his eyes flash blue for a second? Weird. 

‘Fine.’

‘Fine? Just 'fine'?' He rolls his eyes 'Here's a suggestion Derek, why don't you read a book some time this century? Then maybe you can hold an actual conversation that isn't just limited to monosyllables, you know, like an adult.’

Stiles was baiting him, they both knew it. He has his pride okay? He’s been pretty much on his own since his mom died and let’s face it, took care of himself more than his Dad ever could. Being a single child hadn’t helped matters either. He didn't need Derek patronising him like he was some kind of three year old because he’s not. **He’s not.**

‘Stiles I can’t—‘ Derek closes his eyes, lets out a long suffering sigh 'I can’t do this right now ok? Its been a long day and I—'

'Let's just go to bed.’

Stiles bites his lip, surveys the ruined kitchen before him. Every drawer pulled out, every cupboard open, contents vomited along the countertop in an Everest of cereal boxes, dried fruit packets, cutlery, pots and pans of every size. He’d dropped a plate some time ago and the trash can was tipped over, bits of decomposition littering the floor. It looked like a warzone. 

The worse thing is, he doesn't remember any of it.

‘Stiles.’ Derek takes a step forward, ‘Please.’

‘I’m not... I'm not tired.’ He raises his chin, tipping his head up to keep the tears from falling down. Derek doesn't say anything in response, just throws his arms open and Stiles goes to him.  
  


He always does.  
  


* * *

  
He wakes up slowly, staring at the ceiling of his room with blank fascination. Nothing looks familiar.

It's definitely his room, except a poltergeist had come in the middle of the night and rearranged everything. The 'Ghostbusters' poster he has pinned on the far wall is missing, replaced with a board of red strings and photographs of people he's never seen before. _Huh, weird.  
_The blue metal desk he uses to study is gone too, in its place stood a much bigger wooden table complete with a cabinet that came with its own lock. What did he even keep in there? All the stuff on his table is different too, jars upon jars of whiteish powder and a giant portrait of a symbol he doesn't recognise, it looked like three question marks melded in the middle. 

He seriously hopes whoever is squatting in his room isn't in a cult and the jars don't contain drugs or Dad is gonna be so _miffed_. He glances out the window, the little row of houses opposite still look the same so he's definitely in the right place. He turns to the only source of light in the room, only to find that the _Glow-in-the-dark_ Solar System stickers on his nightstand are missing too. _Aww_, he really liked those.

There’s noise coming from downstairs, soft but insistent. He’s pulled to it like a moth to a flame. '_Dad must be home!' _he thinks, bumbling out of the room as quickly as he could. He pads out into the hallway without wearing his socks and tiptoes down the staircase.

The hushed whispers swell into an all out screaming match as he nears the entryway. He stops right before reaching the last step, straining his ears to listen.

‘_—you know better than I do!'_

_'...'_

_'_—__ _give him the bite! I refuse to believe_—'__

_'It's the only way to save him!_’

He shifts closer, crossing the living room like a scene from James Bond, crouching behind the sofa like a flying fox in mid swing. There's two figures in the kitchen, one older and one younger but both unfamiliar. He sits on the floor to listen, arms tucked around his knees. He’s afraid to interrupt, they seemed very angry with each other and he wouldn't want to get in the middle. Maybe this was an alternate universe where aliens dressed as humans had infiltrated his home?

‘_Ask him then! I’m not the alpha anymore.’_ The younger one says, voice oddly soothing despite the barely contained anger._‘Besides, it won't save him.’_

The younger alien continues, head shaking like a big black wolf. ‘_It might fix short-term retention skills but his long-term memories are already shot to hell. He won’t get them back even with the bite. Deaton confirmed this months ago, there’s nothing anyone can do anymore._ _And if the bite doesn't take he'll die._ _Can you live with yourself knowing you let it happen?_’

The older alien, or the alien controlling the older human roars, _‘I can Derek! And do you know why? __Because Stiles, the way he is right now? The way he wanders around the house? The way he spends his days doing nothing but wasting away?'_

_'He’s as good as dead!_’ His voice goes suddenly soft and quiet, _‘And if he dies from the bite? __Then at least… At least I get to say good bye.’_

He picks himself off the floor and leaned in closer. It seemed that the aliens had taken something or someone called Stiles and wanted to turn it into an alien too. 

The younger alien, Derek, speaks up again ‘_Sheriff I’m sorry, you know I am. But it’s not about you, and it’s not about me either. It’s about Stiles and what he wants and he— He doesn't want it. Never has and never will. We have to res—_’

‘_None of this is what he wants!_’ the old man snaps, fist slamming into the countertop.

‘_You don't know that. It’s not our decision to make.'_

_‘I’m his father, I’ve raised him since he was a child, you think I don't know what he needs? How bad he can get? Derek, I’m the one who taught him to be wary of strangers, about honesty as the best policy, about the importance of keeping his promises. _ _And what does he do?'_

_‘Befriends werewolves that try to kill him, lies to me about said werewolves, makes a lifelong commitment to endanger himself just so he can play pretend with his werewolf buddies!’_

There's a moment of silence, the air thick with tension you could cut with a knife. The old man heaves and sighs before continuing,_ ‘I’ve done this before. Twice now. But this time... this time there’s a chance to save him and I’m not about to let that go without a fight. Do you understand?_’

_‘Sheriff—‘_

_‘No.' _His tone is cool and quiet as he speaks_'You think you know what it’s like but you don’t. You think you’re doing him a favour by giving him a choice but let me assure you, you’re doing it for yourself. One day, you’ll understand, but by then it’ll be too late. __This isn't a threat Derek, it's a promise.’ _

There's a pause, a note of finality in the stringy sentence that followed, ‘_Now, are you gonna help me convince Scott or do I need to get down on my knees?’_

_‘I can’t—_‘ Derek’s voice is barely audible as he cradles his head in his hands.

_‘You can!' _ the man named Sheriff screamed, face red like a lobster, _'You can, but you won't because you’re a coward!’ _he puffs up, a maniacal glint in his eye._‘Your whole family was murdered and you did nothing to stop it! Are you going to watch as Stiles dies too? __Of all the... __Of all the things he's done for you? Done for the pack? __Doesn't he at least deserve this much?_’ There's something wet sparkling in the old man's eyes but from this angle, it could easily be a trick of the light.

He takes this moment to appear at the doorway.

He would’ve waited longer but his stomach is growling. Also, the aliens are really freaking him out, going off on 'the bite' and 'werewolves' like they were rehearsing a Greek play. Werewolves aren't real anyway. Unlike time travel which is actually scientific, he's only ever seen werewolves in the movies and on Halloween. He wants them to leave him alone, to leave his house, believes his Mom and Dad would want that too. He tells them so.

They stare at him. He stares back.

_They’re more afraid of you than you are of them_, he reminds himself. He really should have thought this through, maybe they weren’t aliens at all but burglars come to steal stuff, maybe he watched Home Alone before he went to bed the night before. It's a tossup.

The older guy steps forward to grab his arm and clamps down. Hard.

He screams and screams.‘Owwww! Help! Help me!’ 

‘Stiles, Stiles it’s me! Calm down son.’ He twists and turns, desperate to wrench himself free but the man has a death grip that gets tighter with every second.

‘I’m Micyslaw’ he sniffs ‘What's a Stiles?’ A wave of shock seems to pass over the man’s face and he takes that opportunity to dart away.

‘Mom! Mo—mmm where are you Mom?' He sidesteps the younger man and runs into the living room, climbing the stairs two at a time. He swings all the doors open, including the bathroom but they're all empty. Did Mom abandon him to the aliens? She wouldn't do that, would she?

'There's strangers in the house Mom!’ He feels the onset of a panic attack, it wells up in his throat but he fights it back down. Maybe those bad men had taken his mom, he has to rescue her! He sprints back downstairs and trips but picks himself up again, speeding out of the house.

There’s no getaway car on the porch, just the familiar Jeep in the driveway.

‘Mom?’ he calls out again, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. He swallows again and darts into the backyard, the crunching of dead leaves heavy under his footsteps. “MOM!” He calls and calls, sprinting around the garden like a rocket, going round and round in circles. His face is wet from sweat, from tears and his vision is blurry under the dim light. He hears a voice and stops.

“Mom?’ He tries, expecting to finally see her but it's a pair of intensely blue eyes that stare at him from across the lawn. They approach, quick as silver.

‘No!’ He screams, voice hoarse and broken from misuse. Blue Eyes stares back at him, calm and vacant. There’s no hint of malice in them, there’s no hint of anything at all. That's the scariest part.

Blue Eyes holds him down, pins his wrist to the ground so effortlessly that it makes his breath hitch. He kicks hard and his legs are longer and stronger than he remembers but Blue Eyes barely moves, just grunts and tackles him into the grass, spreading his thighs apart, looming heavily above him.

‘No!’ He shakes his head, eyes cloudy with fear. His pajama pants are soaked, the pungent smell of ammonia thick in the air. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the moment to be over, waiting for the pain to strike his skin.

It never comes. Instead, Blue Eyes hauls his sobbing body into an upward position, hands still tight on his wrists but cooing soft and supple sounds against his ears. He can’t stop crying but the change in demeanour is so abrupt and unexpected that it throws him for a loop and he listens to the quiet soothing through ragged breaths. Blue Eyes, who he now recognises as the man named Derek, hugs him with practiced ease, like he’d done it his whole life, like the way Mom always held him when he got panic attacks.

He sags against Derek’s chest, heart beating strong and steady against his own. Calmer now, Derek’s voice begins to take the shape of words, words that he struggles to make sense of. ‘M—name is Derek Hale’ he mutters, voice deep and trembling slightly ‘and yours is Stiles Micyslaw Stilinski.’ There’s a slight pause and the alien named Derek looks into his eyes as if to make sure he’s listening.

So he leans forward, shows Derek he’s paying attention, shows that he's no longer afraid.

‘We met when you were sixteen, you hated me and I hated you even more.’ A small smile spreads on the stranger's face and Stiles can see bunny teeth peeking out from Derek’s lips. He finds that absolutely adorable but he doesn't know why, not yet. ‘Then you saved my life a few times and I saved you right back. You gave me your loyalty, your courage and your heart without asking for anything in return.’ Blue Eyes softens, smudged into a canvas of grey-green-blue, not as vivd but just as beautiful for it.

‘So I gave you mine.’

He continues, swallowing thickly ‘Twelve years later you proposed and we got married but on your thirty-second birthday you were diagnosed with early on set dementia…’ 

Stiles listens, but his eyelids are heavy and his throat is too dry. He can’t move since Derek has somehow entwined their fingers together but he shifts slightly to a better position, rests his forehead on the crook of Derek’s neck and closes his eyes. It's intimate, too intimate for a stranger and Stiles thinks he should find it uncomfortable but he doesn't and once again, he doesn't know why.  
  


He’s out like a light.  
  



	4. That Used To Be

Stiles is a survivor.

That's what Derek remembers and no matter how much time passes, to him Stiles will always be a survivor. He’d come out on top and reasonably sane while others have not and for that Derek is eternally grateful. Derek has werewolf powers but if he’s honest, he’s scared shitless most of the time. Have you _seen_ what they have to put up with? It’s like every night is 'The Purge' in Beacon Hills. Monsters that come knocking on Halloween should accept candy, not an assortment of blood, guts and entrails.

Stiles is human. So very, very human, so many shades of human he could rival the fucking rainbow. It's easy to forget sometimes, the way Stiles always tries to figure everything out, to save everyone even when he can’t even save himself. Well to be fair, Scott is the one who tries to save everyone and Stiles wants what Scott wants because Stiles wants to save Scott who wants to save everyone, which... _Why does that even make sense?_

Point is, Stiles is human, terrifying human and yet he’s gone through the same shitty maelstrom that Derek has, probably even more if you count the ‘camping trip’ to Mexico. Exactly how many near-death experiences did Stiles have during his resurrection-_à-la-Jesus_ moment? The thought is chilling but Derek rolls with it because hey, who’s he to judge? He’s a freaking werewolf for crying out loud. So Stiles is human but he’s not exactly normal either is he? He’s his own species, Derek decides, _Stilinsticas Stilesticus - _a new breed of spastic idiot with an even more complicated name. He should be added in the Argent bestiary, filed under the deadly and hard-to-kill category with a small footnote at the bottom: _Feral klutz, avoid at all costs. When threatened, offer chocolate and peanut butter, preferably in the form of Reeses_.

Stiles still likes them, which always makes Derek smile. He reserves it as a treat for really bad days and it always seems to work (most of the time). Now Stiles is sitting on the hospital bed, staring blankly down at his feet as he tries to remember how to tie shoe laces.

It's taken him two hours to get dressed.

Derek isn’t good at waiting. The last time he had to wait, he’d bitten three highschoolers and turned them into werewolves. Their graves are a reminder of his unerring list of mistakes. He’s had decades experience since then and though age doesn't necessarily guarantee wisdom, dealing with a person who suffers from dementia certainly has. He knows Stiles will be… difficult if Derek tries to put his shoes on for him so he doesn't. He waits.

Ten more minutes pass, Stiles finally looks up at him with a blank expression on his face. Derek surges forward to untie his laces, switches the right for the left and steps back to resume waiting.

_'Oh!' _Stiles mutters softly, a look of eureka washing over his face. He bends down to lace them up correctly, long fingers slow but steady. Then he’s ready, staring at Derek expectantly. Derek picks him up by the armpits and places him in the adjacent wheelchair. Something must be wrong because Stiles gasps and struggles against him. Derek drops to his knees immediately, bones creaking at the effort.

‘Are you okay? Are you hurt somewhere?” He doesn’t smell blood but holds out his hand anyway, ready to siphon off any pain. Stiles shakes his head and starts to cry, big fat tears rolling down his sunken cheeks. 

_Shit._ He thinks, _shit_. It's happened before. Back when they were still living at home, there were days Derek had lost his temper and yelled at Stiles when he didn't deserve it. Days when Stiles couldn't brush his teeth, couldn't walk down the stairs. Days when he had watered the lilies to the point of drowning, had refused to eat and shucked the plate to the floor, had shouted and screamed in frustration till he cried. Days when Derek is so overwhelmed with guilt because he loves Stiles, he loves him so much that he doesn't know what to do because he hates Stiles too. Hates what he’s become. But Derek hates himself the most because this is what he always does, he hurts the people he loves the most.

_It’s not about you_. Derek admonishes, _it’s about him, it’s about Stiles. _He tamps down the self-loathing, there’s no space for that right now. He’s serene because Stiles needs him to be.

‘I’m sorry Stiles, I’m sorry’ he begs, smoothing a hand up and down his back.

‘Who are you? I don't know you!’ Stiles cries softly, struggling against his grip ‘I wanna go home! Let me go! I wanna go home.’

Derek lets him tire himself out, even if every sob is a stab in his heart. He traces the varicose veins up and down Stiles’ arms, voice quiet and soothing.

‘My name is Derek Hale.’ He begins, lifting Stiles into an upward position and onto his lap, ‘And yours is Stiles Stilinski. We met when you were sixteen and you hated me and I hated you even more.’ He takes a deep breath, forcing on a smile 'Then you saved my life a few times and I saved you right back. You gave me your loyalty, your courage and your heart without asking for anything in return, so I gave you mine.'

'Twelve years later you proposed and we got married but on your thirty-second birthday you were diagnosed with early on set dementia and lost most of your memory.' 

'Your friends and your dad were devastated, I was too. But you never gave up on us, even when you should have a long time ago, so we never gave up on you either. For every moment of every day since then, we have loved you and taken care of you the best we can.'

‘You are loved Stiles, you are so _loved _and no matter what happens, you will always be _loved_.' He runs his fingers through soft brown-grey hair, rocks their bodies back and forth in a steady rhythm. ‘That’s all you need to know Stiles, that's all you need to remember.’ He’s been repeating the same mantra for nearly fifteen years now, ever since Stiles was first diagnosed. It practically rolled off his tongue at this stage.   
Stiles had been right, the doctors did say that repetition was important. So he repeats it, again, and again, and again til his voice is hoarse and his bones are aching. Only then, does he stop.

By now, Stiles is quiet, eyes still milky with leftover tears but at least he’d stopped crying. Derek stands slowly, wipes his face with a damp cloth and wheels him out of the room.  
  


-  
  


As they make their way down the hall, a passing nurse with a familiar face calls out. 

‘And how we doing today?’ She beams, referring to Stiles but looking at him instead. This makes Derek frown. He’s not a talker, Stiles is the designated talker but Stiles hasn't spoken a coherent sentence in days so Derek has to answer instead.

‘Fine.’ He grits out, sounding every bit like the posterboy for grumpy old men stereotypes. He can already hear Stiles tsk disapprovingly, (_Don't be such a sourwolf! You can’t get your point across by slamming every innocent bystander into the nearest vertical surface and it’s not like everyone understands your unique Brow-munication Der.)_

‘He’s doing fine.’ He tries again, clearing his throat ‘Better than last week.’

The nurse looks at him kindly.

‘I meant _you_, Derek.’ She says, still smiling. Derek smiles back, showing teeth. 

_It doesn't matter, _he wants to argue, because it really doesn't. He’s never mattered, he doesn't have a soul alive that will care if he lives or dies, he’s lost all of them a long time ago. But Stiles does, Stiles has Scott as a best friend, has Lydia on speed dial, has Aurora as a goddaughter, has the Sheriff waiting at the pearly gates to welcome him home, and Stiles has Derek who owes him so much, more than he could ever repay and it will still never be enough.  
He doesn't say any of this though, it would be an exercise in futility.

‘It's fine. Thank you.’ He resumes pushing the wheelchair down the corridor.

She persists, voice loud in the empty hallway ‘We have a support group for spouses if you’re interested!’ 

He's tempted to laugh, he hasn't heard anything so funny in a really long time. _Now_, after all these years, someone decide to recommend psychiatric help? Oh these silly humans and their silly brain doctors. They’re so… so… _normal. _

Because, and be serious now, what the hell would they know? What the hell would they know of his world? Of monsters and demons? Of sleeping and waking to nightmares? What would they know of darkness? Of death? Of ghosts that beckon at the gates of Hell?   
Nothing, that's what. Them and their shiny degrees, their safe suburban houses and their white picket fences. It makes him sick just thinking about it. He hears Stiles snickering in the wheelchair, like they were sharing an inside joke and Derek smirks in response. Stiles seems to agree with him, the both of them were anything but normal.

They reach the cafeteria and Derek spends the next two hours feeding them both. One bite for him, one bite for Stiles, who seems to be doing much better now, thankfully. He chews most of his food and isn’t picky about his greens so after they’re done Derek unwraps a Reese peanut butter cup as a treat, one for him and one for Stiles.

Stiles ends up with chocolate all over his mouth and Derek finds it oddly endearing, if not for the huge mess. He places a kiss on Stiles’ forehead after wiping him clean and repeats praises quietly because Stiles has been very good and very patient and thanks to him, brunch has taken half the time it usually does. Derek takes their plates and drops them off at the tray-return bin, careful to glance over at Stiles every few seconds so he doesn't wander off.

With that done, they continue wheeling down the corridor, taking a little detour around the compound before arriving at the medical counter.

This is the part Derek hates the most. It’s also the part Stiles seems to recollect his memories the most vividly. The doctor mentioned that this was common amongst patients with dementia but Derek knows better. It’s not a medication adherence issue, it's a Stiles issue. 

He’s seen the man lie his way out of many a life-and-death situation and managed to escape with only his wit and the skin on his back. Sarcasm might be his only defence but he's got a whole arsenal at his disposal, Stiles just chooses not to use them unless things get really dire. Derek highly doubts the nurses here can make Stiles do anything he doesn't want to. And he really, really, _really_ doesn't want to take his medication.

After a routine question and answer, the nurse hands Stiles five different coloured pills of varying shapes and sizes. Stiles sits and smiles back politely but Derek can smell the quiet anger simmering below the surface like it was his own. The nurse, Jo, his name tag reads, places the first pill firmly in his palm, it's a bright yellow one. He coos and gestures it to Stiles’ mouth with a finger, maiming a gulp and swallow.

Stiles throws the pill in his face. Derek is always split looking super apologetic and strangely proud at moments like this, Jo seems unfazed though, picking up the pill from the countertop and pressing it into Stiles’ palm again, firm but gentle as he guides the open hand to his mouth. Stiles makes a big show of gobbling it up before he spits it back out again. It hits Jo right in the eye this time and Derek winces in sympathy.

’Stiles…’ He begins, unsure of what to say. Doing this a million times still didn’t it make it any easier.

'Derek?’ Stiles turns to stare up at him, pouting with trembling lips and big bambi eyes.

‘Derek… is that you?’

Derek doesn't say anything, apparently he’s lost all brain-to-mouth functionality so he nods instead. These moments of clarity don't last long however so Derek tries not to focus on it too much, even if it does make his wolf a little giddy.

‘I don't wanna take them Der,’ Stiles says quietly, so quiet that it’s almost a whisper. ‘Don't let them make me.’ Derek just nods because he’s well and truly lost for words. His wolf whines and stumbles, clawing through the dirt and mud to get out.

‘Der-bear…’ Stiles pulls him down and he goes because that's what Stiles wants and he’ll do and give anything for what Stiles wants. ‘Will you help me?’ Stiles takes his hand, absently tracing the triskele on the back of his palm.

_It's muscle memory_ Derek reminds himself, heart clenching tightly. However brief this moment is, this is still _his _Stiles, this is the Stiles he remembers.

‘I will.’ And just like their wedding vows, he means it. He pries open Stiles’ jaw with a firm hand on his throat, careful not to squeeze too tight before popping the pill in. He presses his thumb on the sternum and watches with glowing blue eyes as the Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before releasing his hold, leaving nothing behind but a shallow indent on ashen skin.

It’s so quick that not even Jo can catch it, he does it four more times in succession.

By the end, Stiles' eyes are watery and there’s saliva dribbling from his chin. He doesn't resist though, which doesn't surprise Derek in the least. Years of fighting werewolves may not be something he remembers anymore, but his body certainly does and Derek isn’t above taking advantage of that.

_'One day, you’ll understand but by then it’ll be too late.'_

‘Thank you.’ He addresses Jo, handing back the glass of water ’See you again after dinner.’ Jo nods and waves them both goodbye and a pleasant day.  
  


He grabs the handlebars of the wheelchair and walks away.  
  


* * *

  
The first week had been the hardest.

He’d never wanted to put Stiles in a nursing home but without the Sheriff on his side, there was no standing up to Scott, Deaton and most importantly, Lydia Martin.   
Derek isn’t afraid of her, _he isn't. _But the woman has the ability to scream his ears off and though his hearing isn’t what it used to be, he would still like to keep them thankyouverymuch.

The first time he visited Stiles at the home, exactly one week after Stiles had been living there, Derek had been pleasantly surprised when he saw how much Stiles had improved, how light-hearted and happy he was, how he’d smelled so much liked the old Stiles. Derek remembers thinking to himself, _it’ll all be alright_. _There’s bound to be a happy ending. _At least, that’s how it always works in the movies right? Its what made Hollywood billions. _Look at what we’ve been through_, Derek insists stubbornly to the gods, _we deserve a happy ending_.

Wrong. As soon as he walked into the room, Stiles had wheeled himself over and pinched his cheek asking, ‘And who’s this handsome fella?’

At first Derek had thought it was a rhetorical question, they were the only two people in the room then he realised Stiles was flirting. He was flirting and it was flattering and horrifying at the same time. Because it meant that any stranger could walk in through that door and just whisk Stiles away, to torture him, or kill him, or worse. And he would be alone and no one would even realise and Derek would be powerless to—

He stops there, shaking the thought from his mind. Scott, his stupid _stupid_ alpha and Stiles’ best friend-turned-greatest-betrayer had told him that putting Stiles in a healthcare facility would be in his best interest. _‘For both of you.’ _Scott had said, voice guttural when he's issuing commands disguised in the form of requests.

Bull. Fucking. Shit. Derek doesn’t deserve the best of anything, Scott should know that better than anyone. Only Stiles does, Stiles deserves the best of everything and he definitely deserves better than Derek’s childish insecurities so he signs the papers and lets Scott take the only person who matters away from him. 

He goes to visit after a week of cold turkey and quickly realises that the only reason Stiles smelled so much like his old self was because he’d somehow managed to ninja away his medication. Great. The nurses never had to deal with supernatural creatures or enhanced senses but Stiles has, he’s had a lifetime of experience whether he remembers them or not. Evading humans, especially normal humans like the people here, was like taking candy from a baby, but the opposite.

Oh Stiles swallowed the damn pills alright, they even got him to open his mouth after, just to be doubly sure. There was no medicine hidden anywhere in his room either so they had no cause to doubt him. But Derek knows the little minx better than he knows himself and isn’t so taken by Stiles’ chatter and charm as easily as the staff here obviously have. They positively adore him and really, how much trouble could a senile old man in a wheelchair be anyway?

_A lot. _Derek thinks, shuddering as he remembers the last time Stiles had tried to skip town. He’d trapped all the werewolves with a line of mountain ash to the north and a string of wolfsbane flower crowns to the south. To this day, no one knew how or when he managed to set the whole thing up.   
Lydia had been the one to drag him back, with the help of Chris but that was only after Stiles had been gagged and bound to the wheelchair whereupon he was safely transported back home in a police pickup truck, courtesy of the Sheriff. 

That was more than ten years ago now.

Derek drags himself to the present, forces his mind to concentrate, sharpens his senses and watches like a hawk as Stiles had popped the pill in his mouth. Blink and you would’ve missed it, if you were human that is. Derek catches Stiles flicking his wrist right before he swallows, it’s a small motion, hardly noticeable but enough for him to figure out how Stiles managed to fool everyone else.   
Right before he swallows, the capsule splits open like an egg, a tiny crack just enough for the powdery chemicals inside to escape, disappearing completely into the air without a trace. Just like how Derek had seen him do with an entire jar of mountain ash.

Derek remembers Stiles as a survivor. Some things just never change.

He visited the home everyday after that. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do anyway, having retired months ago. So what if the dates seemed to coincide? He never needed the job anyway, he’s barely dipped into his inheritance and most of it was spent on Stiles. They paid off their mortgage years ago and a home is just a house without the people you love living in it. 

Scott had hovered over him, red eyes flashing with disapproval. He’s doing that a lot these days, despite criticizing Derek for doing the same when they were younger, what a hypocrite. Derek doesn’t care, Scott may be the alpha but he’s not the boss of him, that was always Stiles’ job and Derek plans to keep it that way. 

Besides, in a few more years he’ll clock himself in and then they’ll never have to be apart again.  
  


* * *

  
He takes them down the path to the gardens, like he has every morning.

It's the only place in the entire nursing home that Derek tolerates. It overlooks the ocean, miles and miles of water as far as the eye could see. Some of the residents had taken to growing patches of vegetables by the fence, a string of sea shells on the ground separated the main path and there was a small shed in the far corner where an array of gardening tools were meticulously kept. A small koi pond rests in the middle, thin streams of water pouring in from a babbling brook.

It’s manicured, Derek thinks. But at least it’s outside, away from prying eyes. He lifts Stiles out of the wheelchair and onto a nearby bench before unravelling an afghan and tucking it around Stiles’ shoulders. The sun is already high up in the sky but there’s still a cold nip in the air, better safe than sorry. 

He opens a thermos filled to the brim with decaffeinated coffee, pours out a cup and blows on the surface before holding it out to Stiles' lips. Stiles drinks it obediently, an audible sigh of content escaping with just the first sip. Derek grins and drinks from the same cup, letting out a little sigh of his own. He doesn’t trust the nurses anymore than Stiles does, so he schedules their daily walk to do his own checkup.

‘Stiles.’ He take the cup from his hands ‘How are you doing?’

Stiles looks at him, recognition in his eyes but when he opens his mouth, no words come out. Derek nods anyway because he knows Stiles is there, he just can’t remember how to put sentences together that's all.

‘Do you know who you are?’

Stiles nods, slow and open-mouthed.

‘Do you know who I am?’

Stiles purses his lips and shrugs, mumbling an apology ‘Are you a friend?’

Derek closes his eyes and doesn't respond. He takes another sip of the coffee and gazes out at the clear blue sky as the waves crash onto the shore, a methodical cycle of swash and backwash, the millennium-long destruction of nature dragged out with every painstaking breath.

Sometimes, there’s just no happy ending. Sometimes life gives you lemons and you just have to eat them, even if they taste bad and you hate every minute of it. 

At this point in his life, Derek’s okay with that. He’s accomplished more than he ever thought possible, especially after the fire. He has a pack, he has a home and he has Stiles, Stiles who has been right there sucking on that lemon for as long he has. Because they’re survivors, all of them.

So what if life doesn’t give you a happy ending? So what if it loads lemons into a pitching machine and fires them in your face? You take that lemon and you throw it right back and you make your own _damn_ happy ending.

It’ll be okay, Derek thinks. It’ll be okay because he’s got the right person beside him. He’s got Stiles and that’s all that matters. So what if the counsellor thinks he has co-dependency issues? So what if he knows the answer to Scott’s question even if the alpha won’t voice it aloud? Derek knows, he’s known for awhile now. 

Between the two of them, Stiles will surely be the first to go and where would that leave Derek?

It’s a stupid question really, only a guy like Scott would worry over such a trivial thing. When Stiles goes, Derek will go with him. It’s as simple as that.

He’s got a bottle of wolfsbane and a picture of their wedding day ready on his nightstand, it’ll be the last image he sees when he leaves. You make your own damn happy ending_, _Derek will make sure of it.

‘My name is Derek Hale,’ He begins the same way he had that very morning, ‘and yours is Stiles Stilinski." 

"We met when you were sixteen and you hated me and I hated you even more. Then you saved my life a few times and I saved you right back. You gave me your loyalty, your courage and your heart without asking for anything in return, so I gave you mine.'

'Twelve years later you proposed and we got married but on your thirty-second birthday you were diagnosed with early on set dementia and lost most of your memory. Your friends and your dad were devastated, I was too. But you never gave up on us, even when you should have a long time ago, so we never gave up on you either. For every moment of every day since then, we have loved you and taken care of you the best we can.'

‘You are loved Stiles, you are so lovedand no matter what happens, you will always be loved. That’s all you need to know Stiles, that's all you need to _remember_." He repeats the mantra over and over, latches onto the words like they're his only reason for breathing, like they're just as important to him as they are to Stiles. 

By the time he’s done, Stiles had dozed off, mouth still hanging wide open. Derek bundles him up tighter in the afghan, stitches their fingers together and whispers softly.  
  


‘_My name is Derek Hale._’  
  


* * *

_-The End-_


End file.
